


The Drowning Man

by whystherumgone



Category: Black Sails
Genre: All the words, BAMF Flint, BAMF Silver, Canon Rewrite, Drama, Feelings, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Out of control tags, Pirates, Plot, Slow Burn, Tension, They may also be in denial, badassery, or Both, the boys are clueless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23616838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whystherumgone/pseuds/whystherumgone
Summary: Silver falls, and Flint dives.A retelling of Season 4, because you loved it but you know you hated it.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	The Drowning Man

**Author's Note:**

> I am obsessed with Flint. Carry on.

**XXIX.**

\--

“For every force that one body exerts on another, the other body exerts an equal force back in the opposite direction.” — Isaac Newton

\--

The chaos of that moment was absolute.

His ship was breaking into pieces. The blood of his men was staining the water red. Ceaseless screams filled the air; men shouting for help, men yelling orders, men demanding surrender, men calling for their mothers and sisters, and brothers. His crew was dying. His war appeared lost.

He should have felt despair at that moment, but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t feel anything because his Quartermaster was next to him, except he suddenly wasn’t. And Flint watched as the man’s body was thrown back by an explosion and pulled underwater by an enormous net, the weight of his metal boot contributing to the giant splash that swallowed him whole.

Not even a year ago, Flint would have thanked his good fortune.

But now, in plain view of his drowning men and the enemy rifles glinting in the morning sun, he simply shrugged out of his long coat and dove after Silver.

\--

“John, you must rest,” said Madi softly, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Silver did not move. In fact, he hadn’t moved from his position of surveying the returning longboats since the remnants of the _Walrus_ crew, including Madi’s people, had washed ashore. He had had no water and no food. He had not brushed the sand out of his face or hair, had not cleared his clothes of debris. He had expended energy only to find a large stick upon which to lean his weight as he stood… and watched.

He had not spoken a single word.

The men were terrified.

Steeling herself, Madi moved closer. As if approaching a wild animal, she slowly shifted to stand in front of him, not quite blocking his view but obstructing it enough to elicit a response. Instantly, Silver’s brow furrowed, jaw locking. His free hand clenched into a fist.

“You have a responsibility to attend to your men, John,” Madi tried again. She was interrupted.

“Fuck those men,” Silver spat, his gaze molten rage. Madi suddenly realized that he was shaking not from heat or exhaustion but from the effort required to keep his ire contained. The thought washed over her like an icy wave. Before her stood a man she no longer recognized, and he was speaking. “He said that, once. He said, ‘Fuck those men. Fuck them for their shortsightedness. Fuck them for their ingratitude. And fuck them for siding with a cowardly, sniveling shit of a mutineer.’ I always knew his words to be true, but I hadn’t quite understood them as well as I do now.”

And with that, Silver stepped around her, waiting for the next launch as if she had never spoken.

Madi refused to surrender.

“They—we—there was nothing to be done!” Her voice echoed strangely in her ears, like a delicate, desperate, choking thing. “Those gunmen had his position the moment he emerged, both of you barely breathing. He did not have the strength. We did not have the strength. There was no time! Your men didn’t leave the Captain, John, but they had to choose life,” she begged.

Silver’s back was broad and uncaring in the afternoon light. He stood silently for a long while, and when he spoke, she wished she hadn’t stayed to hear it.

“Well you made the wrong fucking choice.”

\--

Madi had been gone a while now, which meant it was only a matter of time before the crew sent Billy in her stead. Silver was surprised to find how little he cared about any of it.

He had woken that very morning full of confidence. In his future, he had envisioned drinks and companionable banter; a perfectly coordinated assault, which he had assisted in planning; a Nassau with open arms and brothers-in-arms at the ready, maybe even a repentant governor. Then, after a bloody battle and a win, no doubt achieved somehow through the manic ingenuity of one man, a quiet evening of even quieter laughs and shark-like grins.

Except somewhere along the way, his Captain had gone and decided to sacrifice his own life for Silver’s.

Silver was having difficulty accepting this turn of events.

If he were in a conversational mood, he might have articulated how frustrated he felt at being rescued. Even before his injury, but especially after it, he had rejected all offers of assistance on principle, because he was not interested in appearing weak in front of the men; _his_ men, or any men. The thought of depending on someone else’s kindness for survival was incompatible with his self-preservation instincts.

He might have also spoken at length about how bothersome it was to awaken to a world where his notoriously cruel and crew-murdering Captain had chosen, without explanation, to sacrifice his power and livelihood, and life’s ambition, for the sake of another person. How exactly could Silver be expected to carry on while shouldering the burden of such a gift?

But mostly, if he were speaking, he would have somberly remarked upon the peculiar weightlessness of his body.

Certainly, he could see himself standing presently on a white beach. He could see the pitiful pieces of the _Walrus_ and her crew scattered around him. The throbbing in his stump and the numbness in his good leg, as well as in the arm clutching his stick, were ever-present. He was even vaguely aware of cuts and bruises and splinters stinging somewhere on his person.

He was angry. He was tired. Drowning was not something he cared to repeat.

And yet, one particular sensation was overpowering all of his other thoughts and feelings: his body was calling out for an anchor. He felt untethered, unmoored.

_What_ , he wanted to ask this feeling. _What do you want from me_?!

Silver frowned. The men were distracting him by moving in and out of his periphery, and the memories materializing in pops and crackles in his head were not of any help either.

He closed his eyes, controlling his next breath.

Then—he was underwater, struggling to untangle his boot from the net. His arms were burning with effort and he couldn’t breathe. There was a knife in the net and a strong grip on his elbow, but also noise and gunshots. He was being pulled from above and pushed from below, and his stump scraped painfully against a jagged piece of wood. A fleeting touch of achingly familiar warmth grazed his palm, yet was almost immediately replaced by screaming, movement.

Nearby voices stirred him from his reverie. He opened his eyes and saw the men approaching in the last longboat.

All bruised, all injured, and none of them Flint.

Because Flint had saved him and was then shot and abandoned for it so that Nassau’s hope could live on alongside the name Long John Silver, or whatever the fuck Billy was going to tell him in an attempt to convince him to forget. But Billy would learn.

_Nassau would learn_ how thoroughly John Silver had memorized Flint.

\--

“I’m sorry, what did you say you wanted to do?”

The three of them were gathered around a table in Miranda Barlow’s house, the smell of sweat and whiskey, and something sour suffusing the night air. Billy’s base of operations… set up in the same room as Mrs. Barlow’s fortepiano. The irony did not escape Silver.

“You heard me,” he said, unaffected.

His gaze wandered, catching on the corners of the room, on the broken pieces of delicate teacups on the floor. He found himself imagining Flint, sitting at this very table, reading; Miranda, serving him afternoon tea; both of them enjoy each other’s company and a moment of peace and silence. The mirage was oddly infuriating.

Billy’s response was so full of barely restrained incredulity it was almost amusing.

“What I heard was—I think it must have been—your exhaustion speaking. Because surely nothing else would cause you to suggest we attack Woodes Rogers _tonight_ , when we are clearly unprepared and without enough men to launch such an offense against his navy forces,” Billy insisted, glancing back and forth between him and Madi. Silver stared down at his empty cup for a moment, then pushed it aside with disinterest.

“Billy,” he drawled, slowly shifting his weight forward onto the table, gaze resting heavily on the tall man in front of him. “I’m afraid you have forgotten the details of the story you have crafted for yourself. You see, I am Long John Silver. And those men outside," he pointed with a sneer, "you have dutifully trained to obey my command and to heed my voice before anyone else’s... even yours.”

A shadow cut across Billy’s face, like a hint of confusion or perhaps recognition. Madi clasped her hands tighter in her lap.

Silver continued, as though blind to it all. “So I really need you to understand, Billy, that I intend to use my voice. And that my voice will be law when I use it.” He reached across the table for the whiskey and began to pour himself another cupful. “We will attack Nassau tonight because the Captain warned me about what might happen if we do not take Rogers immediately. And he and I are in absolute agreement regarding how quickly Rogers will—“

“Jesus, can you hear yourself?” Billy’s voice went up an octave. “The Captain warned you? You and he agree?” He gripped the table, white knuckles gleaming. “Flint is _dead_ , Silver. We are free, all of us. You don’t have to do his bidding anymore or follow a path that only he can see; none of us do. Why are we even discussing what Flint wants?” There was genuine confusion in Billy’s eyes. Because, despite his skills as an agitator of crowds and crews, William Manderly was, at heart, a simple man; one who thought loyalty and brotherhood, and bravery were the only things that made life worth living.

Silver turned to regard Madi. She avoided his stare.

_Flint is dead_ , Billy had said. Something cruel and dangerous started clawing up from deep within Silver’s gut because of those words.

Here, sitting in Mrs. Barlow’s house, her rooms illuminated by soft candlelight and surrounded by the grumblings of dozens of men outside awaiting orders, he realized it was darkness. The darkness that he and Flint had shared that now was his alone to carry, forever. He exhaled sharply, gaze wandering, his insides twisting.

Madi broke the silence. “If we are to free Nassau, we must first set free her slaves, as Captain Flint intended,” she said in a placating tone. Silver knew she was addressing him, but he couldn’t find the energy to look away from Miranda and Flint’s bookshelf he had just spotted hiding in the corner. “When we do this, we shall set a fire of resistance in their hearts and the hearts of all of Nassau’s men. And in this, we must succeed if we are to win this war,” Madi’s voice promised. Silver found her eyes.

She would follow him, for now.

Silver nodded. He would use her, for now.

“I agree,” he said and reached out to shake Madi’s hand. She accepted.

Billy rolled his eyes and groaned.


End file.
